


Not Dead

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s01e10 Musketeers Don't Die Easily, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:39:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1448869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The successful resolution of their scheme could be the perfect incentive to stop dwelling on the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Dead

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't written as a prompt fill, because I had already started writing it before I saw the post, but it fit well enough that I am dedicating it to the author of this [Kinkmeme](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org) prompt, for sharing the feels:
> 
> "As we saw, Porthos was quite affected by the possibility of Athos's death at the fake funeral. After everything is done and over with, he keeps close to Athos, wanting to be reassured that the man won't be leaving them (or him) anytime soon. 
> 
> And Athos realizes that Porthos cares -- REALLY cares about his continued existence, and it's a bit enlightening for him, maybe."

“I just had some dust in my eye.”

“I see.” Athos leveled a sceptical gaze at Porthos, one eyebrow arched knowingly.

Porthos conceded the lie with a mournful twist of his lips, the flickering light of a candle dancing across his features in the gloom of the tavern. Only the two of them still remained; d’Artagnan had understandably gone in search of solitude, nursing his broken heart, and Aramis had left soon after, declaring his need for sleep. Porthos had shot him a perplexed glance, but had thankfully allowed his friend his privacy without querying his strangely subdued mood.

Porthos, on the other hand, had yet to show any sign of leaving Athos’s side.

Embarrassed now by his friend’s scrutiny, Porthos’s gaze darted shyly to his lap. “The Captain gave you a very movin’ eulogy.”

“I hear he had a little help.”

One leather-clad shoulder hitched briefly in a small shrug. “Had to give you a proper send-off.” Spoken softly, in a gruff tone that indicated his mind was replaying the memory of the fake funeral and the very real emotions it had stirred.

“It was only a charade, Porthos. I am not really dead.”

“Sometimes it seems almost as if you would like to be.” Porthos cast a meaningful glance at the collection of empty bottles littering the table in front of them, his eyes coming to rest on the half-full cup in Athos’s hand.

Athos followed his gaze and frowned at the wine, instantly regretting the times he had unintentionally forced his friends to witness his most self-destructive behaviour. But it was the underlying anguish in Porthos’s voice that struck at his heart; he had rarely considered just how much his own suffering affected those closest to him.

“It is not always easy to release oneself from the clutches of one’s demons.” It was an apology as much as an explanation, but he knew it barely sufficed in its former function.

“You just need to let go of the past. Look to the future instead.”

If only that were as easy as casting aside a locket, or offering oneself to the oblivion of drink. He had told d’Artagnan that by letting Milady walk away, he was saving himself; if that were the case, why did he feel as if the weight of his past sins was still pressing down on his shoulders?

The pressure of a hand on his forearm brought his attention back to the present.

“You don’t have to do it alone.” It was almost as if Porthos could see straight into his soul, and while that should have scared him, Athos instead felt comforted. There was something in Porthos’s voice – a note of hope? – that stirred within Athos’s chest. He stared at the hand on his arm, remembered the way Porthos had cradled him as he lay still, seemingly lifeless, on the dusty Paris street; the way he had gently carried him with a reverence that would have fooled anybody into believing he really was holding the corpse of a dear friend.

They had both been pretending, but none of the emotion underlying their actions had been an act.

Raising his eyes, Athos was met by an earnest expression, Porthos laying himself bare and silently willing Athos to accept his offer. They all knew what it was like to be burdened by the events of the past, but perhaps Athos had grown so accustomed to the darkness that had been dwelling within his soul for so many long years he hadn’t noticed the light that had been steadily, inexorably, filtering in around its edges, a radiance that Porthos always seemed to emit, provided by the very fact of his presence.

How had he failed to see it?

There was a clattering crash nearby, followed by a burst of raucous laughter as a flagon was knocked to the floor, shattering the moment, an unwelcome intrusion. It took a great effort for Athos to pull his gaze away from the intense depth of Porthos’s eyes, but he was suddenly, jarringly, reminded that a tavern was no place to be sharing something so personal.

Straightening, he placed his cup, with its remaining few inches of wine, on the scarred tabletop with obvious intent.

“I think it is time for me to head home.”

Clearly confused by this announcement, Porthos let his hand drop from Athos’s arm as Athos stood, a frown forming between his brows as he searched his friend’s face with alternating hurt and anxiety, fearful that he had intimated something that Athos was unwilling to consider.

Athos held his gaze, allaying his fears and doubts with a look alone. Bending to retrieve his hat, Athos leaned a little closer to Porthos than was strictly necessary and lowered his voice to a low murmur.

“Perhaps you would care to accompany me.”

Porthos gaped for a moment, speechless, as Athos settled his hat on his head, then blinked and gave a quick nod as if afraid Athos would take his continued silence as a demurral.

“Yeah,” was all the answer he managed as he shot to his feet and hastened after his friend, out of the tavern and into the night.

* * * *

Porthos watched as Athos removed his hat, cloak and sword and lit a handful of candles, their dancing flames giving birth to quivering shadows within the Spartan room.

Finally, Athos turned to him, regarding him silently for a moment. Porthos had to resist the urge to step closer and touch him; it was an impulse he had he felt ever since he had watched Athos fall to the ground after d’Artagnan’s shot had sounded in the square. He knew it was an unfounded impulse for he had always known that Athos had not really been hurt, but he couldn’t shake the need to confirm the fact of Athos’s survival.

When Athos spoke, his words brought a puzzled frown to Porthos’s face. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not giving up on me, for never allowing me to become irretrievably consumed by my demons. I failed to realise just what I had, and for that, I am sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise.” Now that Porthos had a better idea of what had troubled his friend for all these years, he could understand what had driven him to often seek solitude and the senselessness that alcohol could provide. He had never, however, felt it any kind of imposition on the friendship he offered. “But you didn’t have to bear the burden alone.”

“It was mine alone to bear.”

Porthos shook his head with vehement conviction and took the step that brought him before Athos. “You’re never alone,” he stated simply, reaching out with one hand to tenderly brush his fingertips over Athos’s cheek, giving in to that abiding compulsion with now unabashed affection. Watching that casket being lowered into the ground, it had felt like a hand was squeezing his heart; even knowing the damned box was empty hadn’t lessened the pain of the moment, the significance of the act.

Athos’s sharp mind immediately discerned the reason behind Porthos’s need to touch. He caught Porthos’s hand in his own and brought it to his lips, pressed a light kiss to the palm.

“I am not dead, Porthos.” He held Porthos’s gaze, speaking with a sober solemnity of his own. “And I have every intention of remaining that way.”

He also intended to prove it; if Porthos had still harboured any doubts, they were swiftly dispelled by the pressure of warm, insistent lips against his own.

Porthos’s soft grunt of surprise became a hum of contented approval as Athos brought his body flush against his own and licked his way into his mouth with fervent purpose that left Porthos pleasantly astounded, his lips parting of their own accord, granting entry.

Porthos’s hands reflexively grasped Athos’s hips, holding him in place as he responded in kind, tasting the bitter residue of the wine on Athos’s tongue and not caring. That he had Athos’s friendship, trust, and loyalty had never been in doubt; that Athos had taken this step towards something more was a revelation, something Porthos had never dared consider might happen.

They already shared the love of comrades, brothers, and that had always been enough.

Until that moment.

Porthos’s calves struck the edge of the bed. He had barely been aware they were moving, but Athos was guiding him backward, and then the thin mattress was beneath him and Athos was above him and he was still clutching at that warm, vital body as if letting go might break the spell.

Deft fingers made short work of the fastenings of his doublet, the leather pushed aside and replaced with lips, hot against his skin. Porthos tipped his head back, baring his neck to the questing mouth.

There had been numerous occasions during the course of their acquaintance when Porthos had witnessed flashes of emotion from Athos, breaking through his usually stoic bearing with a force equal to a crack of lightning on a still summer’s night. But it was anger or indignation that normally prompted such an outburst, never amorous passion. It was as he felt hands at the waist of his breeches that Porthos paused, fearing that this might be merely a reaction to all that had occurred over the past few days.

“Athos…”

“Hmm?” Athos seemed disinclined to cease the activity he was so thoroughly immersed in.

“You don’t have to do this.” Porthos’s voice was far huskier than he had intended it to be, but his words nevertheless gave Athos pause. He raised his head to look Porthos in the eye, expression grave once more.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Hell no.” Porthos’s reply was instantaneous.

The answering smile that caught at the corners of Athos’s mouth was all at once reassuring and full of suggestive promise. For all Athos appeared outwardly inscrutable – an emotionless, taciturn soldier – Porthos had rarely had trouble discerning his mood; what he didn’t express with words was conveyed just as eloquently with a glance or the quirk of an eyebrow, and Porthos knew in that instant that this was no act for his benefit.

Porthos grinned and let Athos divest him of the rest of his clothing before returning the favour, his hands lingering on the bare skin that was revealed, feeling the warm vitality beneath his fingertips. Athos watched his every movement, clearly a little taken aback by the reverence with which Porthos touched him.

Then he was pushing Porthos back down onto the bed, capturing his lips once again as he swung a leg across Porthos’s body and settled himself astride his hips. His mouth began to roam again, ghosting over Porthos’s beard and jaw, down the length of his throat. Pausing a moment, he sucked at a collarbone, and then travelled lower still to flick his tongue over the nub of a nipple. By the time Athos reached his stomach, Porthos was no longer even attempting to contain the sounds that rumbled in his chest and spilled from his lips, and he gave a full-throated groan of frustration as Athos bypassed that part of him that most craved attention, shuffling down his body to instead press a kiss to the inside of a thigh.

Porthos felt the soft huff of Athos’s chuckle and growled in response, the muscles of his thigh twitching as the bristles of Athos’s beard tickled the sensitive skin there, slowly, maddeningly moving upwards again, and then…

Nothing.

Athos was gone, leaving Porthos to gasp at the sudden loss. He was just on the verge of voicing a plea for his sanity when he felt the wet press of a tongue against the underside of his now very definitely aroused cock; the petition on his lips emerged instead as a curse as Athos licked a wet stripe all the way to the tip.

Surprise mingled with arousal, leaving Porthos light-headed.

Athos was back up over him before Porthos’s brain had chance to spark back to life, his hips bucking up automatically in search of a friction that Athos readily supplied. Athos’s mirroring hardness slid against his own and he opened eyes that he didn’t remember closing to find Athos staring down at him with darkened eyes.

“Porthos,” he breathed, his voice a low whisper. “May I…?”

“Yeah.” Porthos didn’t need him to complete his request, prepared to accept everything Athos had to offer.

Athos reached out an arm, searching the top of a table in vain before dropping to grope blindly beneath the bed. This action pressed their bodies even closer together, but Porthos forced himself to remain patiently still until Athos found what he was looking for and sat up with his prize – a small vial evidently containing some kind of oil.

Gently urging Porthos’s legs wider, Athos resettled between them and uncorked the vial, letting the viscous liquid spill out over the fingers of his right hand.

And then those slick digits began touching, caressing, and Porthos let his head drop back, his eyes sliding shut once more, giving himself to the sensations that every movement sent shuddering through him, igniting nerves with a glorious tingle. When a finger finally pushed inside him, the groan that rattled in his throat was more from pleasure than discomfort and he squirmed under Athos’s attentions, craving more.

Raising one leg, he hooked it around Athos’s waist, both drawing him closer and spurring him on. He felt Athos shift and his hands moved away, leaving Porthos bereft for a moment until Athos lowered over him once again and Porthos felt the press of something larger as Athos aligned himself. Porthos bent his other knee, planting his foot flat on the bed to steady himself and provide a better angle as Athos slowly, carefully, slid inside.

Porthos welcomed the burn, the stretch, relished the feel of Athos filling him, the evidence of just how wonderfully alive he was, so when Athos paused he gave a grunt of protest. But the admonishment that Athos needn’t be quite so damned gentle died on his lips when he opened his eyes and caught sight of Athos’s expression; he was focused on Porthos with a passionate intensity that stole Porthos’s breath.

Reaching up, Porthos curled his hand around the back of Athos’s neck, drawing him down. As he went, Athos rolled his hips forward, capturing Porthos’s resultant moan with a kiss. Their tongues slid against each other in a brief, fervent meeting that was interrupted when Athos began to move again, rocking his hips in a steady rhythm, unhurried and tender.

Although Porthos was the bigger man, Athos had the strength and agility of a skilled swordsman, his pace never faltering, even when his head dropped forward to nestle in the angle between Porthos’s shoulder and neck, finding the extra stability he required to allow a hand to slip between their bodies and grasp Porthos’s cock.

The additional slide and tug of skin on skin had Porthos arching his back to thrust harder into Athos’s hand. The action caused Athos’s cock to strike that spot within him that set stars dancing before his eyes and left him gasping for air while seeking to recreate the effect.

Athos obligingly drove a little harder with each forward motion, his breath coming in quick, hot gusts against Porthos’s neck. Porthos slid his hand up into Athos’s hair, fingers tangling in the strands, grounding himself as Athos skillfully guided him to the very edge of control.

“Athos…” It was a breathless plea, his voice a hoarse rumble, desperate now.

Athos tilted his chin up and his answering, “ _Porthos_ ,” was a gruff whisper just below Porthos’s ear.

It was all he needed.

Porthos came with an insensible cry, the waves of his release shuddering through him unrestrained, his muscles clenching tightly around Athos, still hard inside him.

Athos stroked him through it, remaining otherwise perfectly still, until Porthos was spent, and he placed his arm back on the bed, muscles trembling now from the exertion.

“Go on,” Porthos urged, giving his hips a wriggle. He heard Athos’s breath catch, and then he was moving again, chasing his own release.

Porthos’s over-sensitive body sang with each thrust; it was almost painful now, but not unbearably so, and he wouldn’t have wanted anything less. It wasn’t long before Athos came, cock twitching inside him and body quaking against his, breath now ragged gasps at his neck.

As Athos made to shift away, when his breathing had evened out, Porthos tightened his grip, holding Athos in place. He felt there ought to be some words to express the myriad emotions that were swirling in his head and heart, but nothing that came to mind seemed suitable. Instead, he turned his head and his lips found Athos’s damp forehead, where he placed a tender kiss.

When Athos was settled on the mattress beside him, pressed close both by choice and necessity, Porthos levered himself up onto one elbow, paying no heed to the drying stickiness on his stomach and between his legs, and looked down at Athos. With his tousled, sweat-damp hair and flushed skin, Porthos was certain he had never seen anyone look so beautiful, so _alive_. Skin still buzzing with the ghost of Athos’s touch, he brushed a lock of hair from Athos’s forehead, then let his fingers trace a path down his cheek and travel the length of his throat, over the bump of a collarbone, finally coming to rest with his palm flat on Athos’s breast, over his heart.

“It is still beating.” There was an amused cant to Athos’s lips, but his eyes conveyed nothing but fond reassurance as they held Porthos’s gaze.

“Let’s keep it that way, eh?”


End file.
